A Day to Celebrate Love

When my husband died, I was still in the process of integrating in to his 'before life' and forming connections with his friends.  We lived in Brisbane and he was from Sydney, so most of his close friends weren't local and we therefore didn't get to hang out with them regularly.

I knew they were wonderful people though, lots of fun, loyal friends to Dan and the kind of people I was looking forward to having in my life too.

When he passed away unexpectedly, six weeks after our wedding, one of the many random thoughts that ran through my mind was 'now I will lose my connection to all of these people whom I was really looking forward to getting to know!' Luckily for me, I wasn't entirely correct.

Sure there are some whom I lost touch. Some of them have stayed in contact, checking in on important dates, liking my Facebook posts, etc.  And others have been more present throughout the past 22 months and I'm now blessed to call them friends of my own accord.

This was a great surprise to me. I wasn't expecting it but am so happy to not only have them in my life - to share my love for Dan and swap memories with - but to be making new memories together through our own genuine connection.

One in particular has been an incredible support.  She went to school with my husband and lived down the street from him. They'd formed a special life-long brother/sister connection that they'd both held dear.  She had also, many years earlier, experienced her own grief at the loss of a partner when her boyfriend died unexpectedly, and consequently, fought her own battle with severe depression.

After Dan's death, this friend called or text me at least once a week for a very long time.  Even thought she lived in another state, I started feeling like she was one of the few people I could talk to about what I was going through and rely on to listen to me and 'be there' with me in my darkest days.
This regular 'checking in' didn't stop at that point where most other people start to forget or drop off, it continued for well into the second year and we still talk regularly now.  I value and treasure both her friendship and the connection it gives me to my husband.

So when I heard that her long-term boyfriend had proposed and they were planning their wedding, I was over the moon for my friend and honoured to be invited to their wedding.  However, when the invitation arrived, I saw it would be held the week after Dan's death anniversary, on the same date of his funeral.

I knew that this friend would not only have no idea of the significance of this date for me (the funeral day is something that not many would think about), I also knew she'd be mortified if I told her the impact it had on me.

So, over the past couple of months, I've been thinking about what to do.  On one hand, I really want to be there to celebrate my friend's happy day.  A hopeless romantic, I have always loved weddings and was honoured to be invited.  But on the other hand, I knew this would be a difficult time for me. Possibly not the best day to be travelling interstate, to a 'love' themed event where I wouldn't know many people.

I was torn.  I didn't have to make a quick decision, it's still a couple of months away, so I let it sit and wait until the answer came to me.  We continued to speak regularly, my friend was very understanding and never put any pressure on me to attend but couldn't keep the excitement out of her voice when I enquired about her wedding plans.

As an example of what a wonderful person she is, they happy couple even asked my permission to incorporate Dan in to their day - choosing a reading from one of his favourite books and asking guests to consider making a donation to a charity that supports people with depression, in lieu of a wedding gift.

This week, I finally made my decision - and booked my flights to attend.  This was based on a range of factors.  Another friend offered to come with me as my 'plus one' and keep me company; the excitement that I felt for my engaged friend started feeling stronger than the dread I felt for my husband's pending anniversary; and I decided that the 1st of August didn't have to ONLY be about the day we said goodbye to Dan - but it could also be the day to celebrate something beautiful.

I chose to make it a day to celebrate love.  The love that my friend shares with her husband-to-be, and the love that brought me not only to Dan but to this special person he heralded into my life.

Writers Block

NOTE:  I wanted to start my post this week by thanking everyone who left such lovely and supportive messages on my last piece - Scared of the Anger.  To receive your support after allowing myself to be so vulnerable really warmed my heart.  I love our widowed community!

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At every week's end, I sit down to write this blog and sometimes surprise myself with what pours out.  Regardless of whether I'm busy, riding an emotional high/low, processing a new grief feeling or just 'checking in' with myself, there always seems to be something to say.

It can be a very cathartic process.  Some weeks, I'm burning with a need to get something off my chest.  Often I don't even know what it is that I'm going to write about, I just place my fingers on the keyboard and the words start to form.  But this week... well, I've got nothing!

For the first time as a Widow's Voice writer, which is coming up to a year, I am sitting here and nothing is happening.  I'm not sad about anything.  I'm not excited or surprised about anything.  There have been no significant events this past week to bring up a new thought or emotion.  It's not even that I'm numb or too detached from myself to connect with the grief. I'm feeling fine - very neutral and steady.  I just 'am'.

So I start to think, 'this is new'.  What does it mean to feel 'nothing'?  Is this some kind of progress?  Or am I back in some form of self-preservation denial?  I don't thing so.  I mean, it doesn't feel like I'm avoiding anything.  I just feel at peace.

We are one month away from the start of my 'major milestone period', as the ninth of June will be our two-year wedding anniversary.  Then shortly after, my birthday and then two year anniversary of his death.  Within eight weeks I went from marrying him to burying him.

Last year, I experienced all of these as 'firsts' and it was a tough couple of months.  I'm coming back around now for a second go and am trying not to set any expectations but would by lying if I said I think it will be smooth sailing.  I'll then be in my 'third' year, which just feels surreal.

So maybe, right now, my mind and body are just riding this lull.  It is a calm before the storm?  I won't know for sure until the clouds start forming on the horizon.  I'm not going to over think this, I'm just going to be here in the moment and let it be.

So apologies, dear readers, that I don't have more for you today.  I feel very uninspiring, like I'm letting you down.  But, as we know, we can't force these things.  We can't control or steer this wild ride called grief so maybe the message in today is just to let it be and take the moments of peace while we can.

Scared of the Anger

It's been a year, nine months, one week and two days since my husband took his life and I'm only now just starting to feeling angry. Even typing that, makes me ill.  I'm  very much NOT ok with feeling angry.  

When he first died, I had a fleeting moment of thinking 'how could he have made this decision for us, without consulting me!?' and then within a split second it was gone - replaced with 'well he was sick.  This wasn't my husband, this was his disease.  It robbed him of his logic, his understanding of consequences and his ability to make rational decisions. It also robbed him of his ability to ask for help. In that moment, he believed there was no other way.'  

Any hint of anger was replaced with sadness for how scared and lost he must have felt. That just broke my heart and overshadowed everything else.  I didn't want to yell at him, I wanted to hold him, comfort him, sooth him. 

I'm not a 'yelling' kind of person, never have been.  As a child, I was much more included to sulk rather than throw tantrums.  As an adult, I'm logical and sensitive, I want to find solutions and compromise rather than get lost in rage or lash out.  

My husband and I weren't fighters.  We didn't always agree, but we always communicated from a place of kindness - reluctant to hurt each other and always wanting to work towards a mutually-agreeable solution.  We never used harsh words or said things out of spite, which is why I'm totally freaking out at the harsh words that have been coming to mind now, when I think about his death. 

I have been putting off writing about this.  I can barely speak about it to my closest friends.  The words choke as they come out, I'm petrified of acknowledging this emotion. 

I don't want anyone to get confused and think that I'm blaming my husband for his death.  I've been a fierce and vocal campaigner of showing support to those suffering mental illness, and working to remove the stigma and blame around suicide.  I'm worried that by expressing anger in a public way, it may be misinterpreted. It is a very private, very intimate and very personal emotion and it's scary to be vulnerable.  It's also a temporary emotion, but something that I need to acknowledge and work through, in order to prevent it from settling in my stomach and making me unwell. 

I described it to my grief counsellor this week as though there is a child inside me wanting to throw the mother of all tantrums.  She wants to rage and scream and kick and break things.  She is so hurt and angry, she feels deceived and betrayed.  But, there's also the rational, loving adult who keeps silencing the child with soothing words such as 'but it wasn't him, he adored you - he would never consciously hurt you'.  As soon as the child starts to find her voice it is quickly shut down. But my rationality just needs to shut up for a moment so the anger can be heard and released before it suffocates me. 

I'm scared that my anger might hurt people, like those who love Dan and may not be ready for this emotion (which was me, up until now). 

I'm scared that I may be encouraging others to feel angry at him. The thought of that pains me greatly, which is very confusing and complicated.  Even in my own anger, I want to protect him from any wrath. 

And I'm scared that by acknowledging this in any way, including writing about it here, people will try to stifle or dissolve my anger by rationalising the situation.  Making it even harder for me to process it as a valid and important part of the grief journey. 

I know that while, right now, I may be very mad about his death, I still love my husband.  The anger doesn't change that.  I will continue to love him long after I've released this pain and I know that, where ever he may be, he will understand why I feel like this and forgive me.  He is probably actually wondering why it's taken me thing long in the first place.  

And again I'm reminded about the personal growth that grief leads us to.  I have learnt so much about myself since his death.  I've been faced with thoughts, emotions and ideas that I probably would never have had to consider if he were still here.  Learning to be comfortable with my anger is just the latest on this long list.  I know I will get through this one too, because my track record so far is pretty impressive. 

Dating in the After

For some reason, I seemed to have developed the assumption that dating would be easier this time around.  God knows why.  I think, maybe, I decided that after being through something so horrific, that by the time I got to the stage where I felt ready to open my heart again I would have accumulated some kind of positive ‘love karma’ and earned myself another nice, respectable man. 

I imaged that I would make some kind of grand statement (like uploading a profile on a dating website) and eligible suitors would form an orderly queue.  I’d go on a couple of dates before finding someone whom I sparked with, and we’d be off. 

Silly, silly widow!  Why or why was I so naive?  How could I not have remembered the shallow pool of contenders I encountered last time around – let alone imagined the minefield of idiots that would be waiting for me this time.  To attempt to take advantage of a perceived vulnerability, or freak out and react uncomfortably at the first mention of death.  Or just to basically be disappointing overall.

So far, dating ‘after Dan’ is very different to dating ‘before Dan’.

I don’t have the energy I did before. I don’t have the stamina or resilience for the game playing (is he going to call?  Should I call?).  I’m much more fragile this time around and now that I know the stakes and what I could potentially gain – and then lose again – I’m more cautious and reserved. 

Furthermore, Dan set the bar REALLY high. As in, I'm really holding out for someone incredible. Someone who makes me light up. Now that I know what the real deal, no-holds-barred, 100% true love feels like, nothing less than will ever be tolerated. Not that it should ever have been tolerated before, or by anyone in any circumstances.  But before Dan I didn’t know exactly how incredible love could and should be.  

This next man will need to have a bit of class about him but be humble at the same time. A gentleman, honorable, funny, loyal and basically an all-round stand-up guy. Because, as I now know without a doubt, this is what I deserve.

Which, is another big difference to dating this time around, I have a better understanding of my own worth. Before Dan, I put up with more than my fair share of nonsense from guys who really should have treated me better. I'd been taken for granted and this had subconsciously impacted on what I perceived that I was worth. I didn't realize it at the time, but until I met Dan I think I'd started believing that love just wasn't meant for me. 

And then along came the most wonderful man. He meant it when he said I was beautiful, kind, funny and smart.  He taught me what love felt like and proved that I'm the type of woman who really does deserve the best. Furthermore, I'm not ashamed to admit it. I'm freaking awesome! The next guy who wins my heart is going to have to be pretty special, because he'll be getting have a very incredible woman. 

In my wedding speech, I said to Dan (among many other things) ‘You’re such an amazing man.  You always know just what to say and you save me every day.’ When I sat this week and pondered what being in love with Dan had taught me, I realised that he had taught me how to save myself.  Never again will I find myself in an unfulfilling relationship or question my worth. He gave me that. 

I’m still impatient though, I am wanting to take a step forward.  I’m wanting to test the waters.  I’m wanting to feel a stirring in my heart again but just can’t find the right person to make it stir.  I’m scared as all get out, but I’m ready to try. 

I know, I know – all good things come to those who wait.  You can’t hurry love.   You’ll find someone when you aren’t looking.  Bla bla bla, I know.  I’ve been around this block before, I know how it works.  It’s just so bloody annoying that I’m going through it all again. 

Until Death Do Us Part

Yesterday I was faced with another one of those big hurdles for us widowed folk – a wedding.  My dear friend married the man of her dreams and began her life as a Mrs. 

This wasn’t my ‘first’ wedding as a widow, my best friend got married three week’s after Dan’s death.  While I attended that event, wore my bridesmaid dress and managed to stick around until after the formalities before excusing myself and going home to cry, I was still in deep shock at that point and the whole experience seems surreal to me now. 

So I guess you could say that yesterday’s wedding was the first that I was really present for. 

Leading up to the event I was delighted for my friend.  She is a wonderful person, as is her new husband - the type of people that genuinely deserve to find happiness.  They have a kind and generous love and an incredible appreciation for each other that very much reminded me of my own relationship with Dan. 

I knew it would be challenging to see another couple sharing their special day – so full of hope and potential – but, like many things, the reality was more difficult that I was ready for.

The day was full of moments that made my heart ache.  The vows... the exchanging of rings... the speeches... the endless references to living happily ever after.  Even just watching all the other coupled-up guests enjoying each other's company, I was not only faced with the constant reminder that my own marriage was so unfairly short-lived, but I missed the person I most wanted to share that day (and every happy day) with. 

I watched couples exchanging sweet, intimate smiles as they found their own relevance and meaning in the beauty of the day. I sat as partners danced closely with their significant others. I felt the love in the room and couldn’t stop wishing with every part of my being that my husband was there with me, holding my hand.

I exhausted myself, trying to keep it together, but there were many tears. The friends I sat with knew it was difficult for me and tried to offer comfort but I didn't want people to know much I was hurting.

I especially didn’t want the bride to see my pain – I was mortified at the thought of taking anything away from her beautiful day even though I knew, of course, that she would understand.

It’s important to note that there were also a lot of good things about the wedding. I had moments of really enjoying myself, I laughed with my friends and was filled with love and happiness for the beautiful couple.  I just wish so much that Dan had of been there too. I think he would have had a nice time and made friends with the new partners who have come in to our group since he passed. 

All day, despite trying so hard to fight it, I kept thinking: I can't believe we only got six weeks of our ‘happily every after’, it sucks so damn much.  I guess that will never NOT suck.  It will always be shit and unfair and painful as hell.  Hopefully just not as often.

A Beautiful Dream

I was so happy in my marriage that when I look back and remember that time, it almost seems surreal. 

My incredible wedding day, filled with so much love, feels like a dream to the point where I start to wonder if it actually happened. A beautiful, delicious dream that had me walking on air for 45 days. I'd found a soul mate and we'd made the perfect match.

I was still getting used to this incredible feeling of being so blessed when I lost Dan to depression and it was all ripped away. The bubble popped.  

You know that feeling how when you have something so wonderful, that you can't help but be scared of losing it?  To the point where it distracts you from actually enjoying it.   And then when you do happen lost it - for whatever reason - there's almost a sense of relief that you don't have to be afraid anymore?  Well I think a tiny part of me never believed it would be possible for us to be as happy as we were. 

It was almost unfair, we had it that good. I would wonder sometimes how I'd fall back to earth. Would we have infertility issues? Would we come up against financial hardship? Would our house burn down? If so, regardless of what our challenge was, I knew we'd deal with it. We'd be happy with each other and focus on our blessings.  But I couldn't shake the fear... what would it be that popped our bubble?

I convinced myself there'd be a car accident. I lectured Dan about the dangers of using his phone while driving and beg him to be safe.  The day he didn't come home from work I immediately suspected this is what had happened and called the police to ask if there'd been any accidents involving my husband.

I never thought I'd lose him to suicide. Even when he was diagnosed with depression four weeks before he died and I knew he wasn't well, I couldn't consider that he would reach a place so dark. But when the police came to my house that night, many hours later, and shattered my heart with those devastating words - a little voice said 'there you go, there it is' and the other shoe dropped.

What was it that made me believe I didn't deserve to be that happy? I'm a good person, I'd waited a long time for Dan. I'd paid my dues, put in the hard yards as the single girl at the party, waiting for the right boy to ask her to dance. 

This is what bugs me now. We were good people. This was not a fair and I shouldn't have to assume that being ridiculously happy has to come with some kind of penalty or pay off.  I don't want to worry, every time things look up for me, that some kind of morbid, cruel karma is going to come along and take me down a peg or two. 

Maybe I just wasn't used to the level of joy and security. If we'd been given longer, years, decades, maybe I would have stopped feeling so uneasy in my good fortune and settled in to a sense of stability.  I hope I have that opportunity again in the future to feel that level of happiness that Dan instilled in me.  And I hope I have a longer period of time to enjoy it and grown comfortable with it and learn that it doesn't have to come with conditions or an expiry.  

A Time for Compassion

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Like the rest of the world, I awoke to the news this week that the tragic crash of the Germanwings flight 9252 was due to a deliberate act of the co-pilot, and my heart sunk.   My immediate thoughts were for the families of everyone on board - there would be so many questions, so much pain.  All these beautiful, innocent lives lost in a horrific and random act, how incredibly unfair and what an enormous trauma for their loved ones to have to make sense of. 

Among those lost, were every day people including students, teachers, families, opera singers, tourists, university graduates, babies, journalists, business professionals and newlyweds. People with so much to live for, people who will be greatly missed. So many families who will never be the same again, so much grief. 

However my heartbreak was not only due to my sympathy for those whose lives had been lost but also because I knew I would have to brace myself for the inevitable media circus of assumptions and speculation on what lead this man to this catastrophic act. 

This is a difficult topic to write about because it ignites a range of complex and personal emotions, all of which are valid, and there is potential to offend or cause hurt to those who have been affected by similar events. There will be readers whose loved ones were taken due to the actions of others.  And there will be readers whose loved ones, for various reasons, caused others to pass with them.  So I’d like to ask you to join me in making this a safe place for anyone who might feel personally affected by this topic.

I lost my husband to mental illness, he was not of a rational or sound mind when he took his life.  He couldn't see the devastation his death would leave behind and the ongoing pain and trauma he would inflict on those of us who love him.  This is because he had a disease which robbed him of his mental capacity, logic and reasoning.  I have had to come to understand and accept this, however part of my challenge is having to face comments from people who are ignorant about mental health and use words like 'selfish' and 'weak' when speaking about suicide.  

I don’t have the added burden of other lives being lost due to his actions and couldn't pretend to imagine how difficult that would be. So my heart also aches for the family of the co-pilot who have lost a son and are now left to both try and make sense of how he came to be in such a dark place and carry the weight of the hatred and anger being directed at him.  

Please let me be clear here, I am in no way defending or excusing the actions of anyone who takes another  life. This is never ok and there is never a justification for a murder/suicide.  More often than not these horrific incidents are carried out by people who aren't just mentally unstable, but who are trying to consciously cause pain, instil terror or control others due to reasons such as religious extremism or racial hatred. 

Most of us will never know what drives someone to carry out an act such as this. However the fight to raise awareness and reduce the stigma around suicide takes a few giant steps back when public conversation jumps to the assumption that this person was evil and fails to acknowledge that these tragedies are caused by a vast range of reasons, including someone being mentally ill and not accessing the help they need.  

This doesn't excuse or justify their actions - it doesn't make it any less painful for the families left behind. But as a society that is trying to make sense of such events and identify how they could be prevented in the future, it is important to remember there could have been many different causes. 

It's devastating news and, as humans, it’s natural for us to talk about these events in a bid to make sense of them.  So of course people are going to talk about it... but I feel my face burning and my heart sinking, as words get bandied around like ‘selfish’, ‘evil’ and ‘cold-blooded killer’.  The water-cooler gossips in my office and media reports are always quick to jump to the most dramatic speculation but there is never a call to wait with open-minds and compassion, until further facts are known.  

A colleague of mine lost her good friend a few years ago when she took her life, and her daughters, in a very public way that caused shock in our community.  This woman had been battling severe depression and it is her loved ones' opinion that her actions were driven by her belief that she couldn't go on any longer and would be sparing her daughter from the grief and shame that would be associated with her mother's death.

Speculative, nasty and inflammatory comments in the media about the incident added so much extra pain to their grief. In no way is it logical or 'right' but they could never consider her to be a hateful or violent person or a bad mother and their grief was compounded with the despair that she would always, in the eyes of the public, be remembered this way.

When something like this occurs we have the mammoth task of needing to process what has happened and find some peace in a place where there is no logic.  This is not something that our brains are wired to do.  We have an instinctive need to pigeon hole or diagnose or label a situation in order to file it away in our sub-conscious and lay it to rest.  When this is not possible, when the cause is either quite complex or beyond our realm of every-day comprehension, what are we to do? 

My hope is that when people hear about these events in the news and find themselves trying to understand what caused them, they come from a place of compassion rather than judgement.  This man was not well.  His family are grieving his loss as well as coming to terms with the enormity of his actions. The one thing they will know for sure is that their son was suffering so badly that nothing made sense, including his reasoning for taking the life of another.  

So I am choosing not to quickly judge something I don't and could never understand.

The D Word

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Over the past couple of months I have been very quietly thinking about that terrifying concept of dating again.  The feeling that I might like to dip my toe back in the dating pool started creeping in around late January, at my 18-month mark, and completely took me by surprise.

After Dan’s death, the thought of finding another partner filled me with such dread – I didn't want anyone else, the idea of another man’s touch repulsed me and I couldn't understand how someone would ever make me as happy or complete as my husband had, or live up to the expectations that he had set. I had married him six weeks earlier knowing undoubtedly that he was the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, I couldn't contemplate an alternative.

For a long time I thought that I had to wait until I finished grieving before being ‘ready’ to love again.  Because how could I possibly ask anyone to take me on while I still had ‘bad days’ on a semi-frequent basis?  How could I give my battered heart to another while still crying for my lost love?  What a disaster – it wouldn't be fair to myself or to any future suitors.  Sex was the last thing on my mind (and is still not the driver for me wanting to date).  I wondered if the 20 wonderful months I’d shared with Dan would be enough to sustain me for the rest of my life, however long that may be, if I were never able to love again.

It wasn't until I attended Camp Widow West in July last year and met so many wonderful widowed people, who had learnt to love again while honoring their dearly departed, that I began to understand that I would never actually finish grieving Dan.  There wouldn't be a line in the sand where I could put that part of my life behind me and start a new chapter, stress and baggage-free.  And more importantly, I didn’t want to leave that part of me behind. 

It was a bit of a light bulb moment. Maybe, just maybe, I would be lucky enough to one day meet a man who was secure within himself and would accept that I could give myself to him without having to let go of the love I have for Dan.  The idea still terrified me – but I don't want to be alone forever.  I also knew Dan wouldn’t want me to be alone.  And for that reason, I knew I would have to try.  But not yet, I still wasn’t ready.  I had more healing to do and needed to learn to love the ‘new me’.  So I focused on that and put the idea of dating out of mind. 

Until recently, when it began bubbling up to the surface more and more often.  After finally accepting that – yes, I think it would be nice to have someone to share my life with.  I think I would like to try dating and see how it felt.  Maybe I would freak out and fall apart, but I wouldn’t really know for sure until I gave it a go.

So, a few weeks ago, I did just that.  I created an on-line profile on a respectable, ‘paid’, dating website and started chatting to a man.  A psychologist, to be exact, who I'd hoped would be sensitive about Dan’s suicide and emotionally-mature enough to help me navigate the world of dating again.  Unfortunately, it didn’t go well… we didn’t click, he was very boring, kind of arrogant and also asked a lot of questions about Dan’s death, critiquing the treatment he'd been receiving for his depression and basically making me feel like my husband was a case study for his professional analysis rather than a real human being.

It was pretty bad.  But I had survived it.  In fact, it was so ridiculous that I actually found the whole situation funny and was able to laugh about it with my girlfriends over a glass of wine or two.  I’d gotten my ‘first date’ out of the way and surely things would have to look up from here.  So here I am.  Officially dating again, well  - looking for a worthy candidate anyway (which is not proving to be easy!).  I'm taking it slowly, not rushing anything but remaining open to possibilities. 

The timeline is different for everyone and I’m still figuring mine out.  If I happen to meet someone I like, I don’t really know how I feel about even kissing another man, let alone having sex.  The idea of giving my heart to another still terrifies me.  But I’m ready to at least take a step in that direction and see where it leads me.  

A Little Bit of Happy and a Little Bit of Sad.

This coming Monday would have been my husband's 36th birthday. Instead, it will be the second that I had to mark without him.  All week I've felt the weight of my grief with such intensity.  The disbelief that he's gone. The whys, the if onlys and the its not fairs.

He died in July 2013 and after getting through a full round of all the first milestones, I had pretty much assumed that I'd put the most difficult steps behind me.  However, since then, I've faced the shocking realisation that this is certainly not guaranteed. Because how is it possible to rate degrees of difficulty in days-without-your-husband when it comes to being a widow?  Some are easier than others, of course, but there's no logic or rational scale.

So there I was, thinking that I after getting through his first post-death birthday I would know what to do with myself this year.

Nope.  I'm totally at a loss.

Last year, his birthday was the first of the key milestones (other than Christmas and the day he proposed).  His birthday was the first Big One.  We were seven months in and still in a great deal of shock.  However, with the help of a couple of his friends, I was able to come up with a plan.

I organised a barbecue for family and friends, followed by a fund-raising lawn bowls afternoon at a beautiful venue in his home town of Sydney.  More than 50 of us gathered on this very difficult day and raised more than $1000 for a charity that raises awareness and supports people with depression, Beyond Blue.

It was a difficult day, it was very sad, but if felt like the exact thing Dan would have wanted us to do. To come together, have a few beers, a laugh (and a cry) and support each other.  We we placed a framed photo of him on a table and his favourite football team were even playing on the television t the bowls club.  It was the perfect way to celebrate a man who was loved by so many.

There was talk about holding an annual event, but this year his birthday fell on a week day, people have been busy with holidays, babies and weddings.  I know it may not be the case but it felt to me that life has seemed to have moved on for a lot of his friends, even though I know they think of him often and miss him always.  If I had of tried to drum up some enthusiasm for a get-together I know they would have rallied, but I didn't have the energy myself.

So I'll be in our home, in Brisbane, alone and away from his family and friends.  I have at least had the foresight to arrange for the day off work, but beyond that, I was totally stumped at how to mark the day.

Nothing felt grand enough, suitable enough, solemn enough and happy enough.  This was the day that the world welcomed a very special person.  Even though he's no longer here, it's a day that should be celebrated.  Shouldn't it?  This was my problem - I didn't know whether to give in to my sadness or focus on how wonderful this day was. Nothing felt right.

After struggling all week with what to do with myself, I finally came up with some semblance of a plan.  I will have a quiet morning at home, visit his grave, meet my sister for lunch at a restaurant that he loved and then take myself off for a relaxing and indulgent massage at my favourite day spa in the afternoon.

A little bit of happy and a little bit of sad.  And nothing that can't be cancelled at the last minute if it all goes to shit and I just need to hide under the blankets in bed for the day.  Because as I'm sure we all know, sometimes, regardless of the best laid plans - grief doesn't care about our agenda.  It roars on in and then seeps quietly away on its own schedule.

The Eternal Challenge of the Suicide Widow

Last night, after a tough week, a friend and I treated ourselves to a night out at a local comedy festival to have a few laughs and blow off some steam. We had tickets to see an up-and-coming Australian comedian who has acted in a couple of popular local TV shows and I was really looking forward to seeing her live. 

It was great... until she started joking about suicide. My stomach dropped, my face started burning, my throat tightened and my eyes were pricked with tears.  I couldn't believe it.  There I was trying to forget about being a suicide widow for a night and the topic was being shoved in my face. 

I tried really hard not to spiral into the grief, to just breathe and push it aside, but I just couldn't loosen up and laugh properly again after that.  At the end of her suicide bit she may have noticed a few blank looks in the audience (there were a few laughs too though) and finished it with 'come on people, lighten up, I'm joking!'.  Making me feel not only sad and self-conscious, but also like I was some kind of uptight downer who couldn't take a joke.

Driving home, I kept thinking about it.  I know it's not uncommon for comedians to push the limits of social decency for the sake of a joke. But is suicide EVER funny?!  Even for those who haven't been touched by it?  

Dan's suicide has been weighing heavily in my thoughts this week.  I don't usually focus on it, but have found myself heavily distracted with questions around why and how it could have happened to him.  

A few days ago I was searching for something on my computer and found a link to his wedding speech.  I'm going to share it here for anyone who might be interested.  We were married a little over six weeks before he died.  So this man, standing up in front of a room full of people who care about him, brimming with happiness, love and gratitude, was 45 days away from taking his life.  I want to track down people who say 'suicide is a choice' and show them my husband's wedding speech.

It's probably been a year or so since I've watched it.  Seeing him standing there, talking about how meeting me was like finding his home, brought on a wave of disbelief that hit me like a tsunami.  I didn't see depression in him that night.  

Looking back, I can see times throughout our relationship where he was a bit quieter than usual or seemed a bit withdrawn.  He never pulled away from me or held anything back between us, so I had made assumptions that it was his personality to sometimes be a bit detached from the hustle and bustle going on around him.  I had no way of knowing what he was battling.  Any silence or space in the months before he died was most likely filled by my own excitement about our wedding and starting our life together.  He was always fully there with me, never giving me reason for concern.  But what did I know?  I had no idea what to look for, I just didn't see it. 

In his speech my husband says: 'Our lives are just beginning and together there is nothing we can't do.  We can take on the world, it's me and you and nothing else matters.' 

These words have echoed around my mind and torn at my heart since I heard them again this week.  I want to feel angry.  I want to rage at the injustice of him dying like he did.  It's not supposed to happen like that.  How is this my story now?  What on earth happened?

It can be so easy for those of us left behind by suicide to get lost in that torment of what should have been. I have worked incredibly hard to find a place of acceptance in the way Dan died.  This is the only way I can move forward. There will never be answers to the questions that I deserve to ask.  No good can come from fixating on them, I have to let them go.  

This is my eternal challenge, because even though months can go past where I feel like I understand how depression took him and I'm at peace with it, they will never be resolved and I will always have to work at the 'letting go'.

It's so very difficult, this extra layer of grief that suicide hands us.  The stigma that it brings can cast a shadow on the memory of our loved ones that makes the burden slightly heavier to bear.  I never could have imagined that this might be part of my story, but it is.

I have to keep reminding myself that he died from a disease.  Looking at him standing there, in his beautiful wedding suit, the pride and happiness beaming from him, I can't see this disease.  This in itself is the problem.  It's invisible, tormenting and sneaky and would have caused him to doubt himself in the cruelest of ways.  I hate this disease. I am petrified of it and I hate it.  I think of it as the demon disease that fed lies to my wonderful husband until his brain was poisoned beyond his own recognition.

When I look back on photos from our time together I sometimes see a shadow here and there, a flatness in his eyes in some photos. And these break my heart.  But I'm glad I couldn't see it in him on our wedding day.

I hope he had some reprieve that day.  I believe he did.  And so I will carry these memories with me always, using them to bring comfort during the times that his depression attempts to torment me too.

An Invisible Audience

I'm feeling very flat tonight.  It's been a long day.  My office was closed due to bad weather and while, at first, I was excited at the thought of spending a day at home with no agenda, it has dragged and the quiet stillness has started to seep in under my skin.

It's a strange feeling to go to bed at night realising you haven't spoken a single word all day.  It happens to me often.  I've had a few text messages from friends and family checking in but there's been no human contact, no physical energy in the room to stir with mine and remind me that I'm not alone.

The quiet generally doesn't bother me.  I'm an introvert and a homebody, comfortable in my own company.  I usually not only relish time on my own, I need it to recharge.  But today, the quietness felt heavy.  And I've sat down at my laptop tonight to write this entry for Widow's Voice thinking, as I do often, what on earth do I have to say today that anyone will find interesting.  Let alone helpful. It's an incredible honour to write for this website and not a responsibility that I take lightly, however sometimes that sense of duty can feel almost intimidating.

Am I being honest and raw enough?  On the days that I'm feeling positive and upbeat, will I alienate the readers who find my outlook irritating or unrealistic?  If I tell a personal anecdote am I comfortable sharing a part of my life that is very private, or will I feel ok if someone in my real life stumbles upon it and possibly reads something that upsets them?  Incase you haven't worked it out by now, I can be an over-thinker and quite hard on myself!

However this week I received an email from someone I met at Camp Widow in Tampa who also lost her husband to depression, only a few months ago.  Her kind words meant more than she could know.

She wrote, among other things, that she had spent a lot of time over the weekend reading my blog posts and Facebook fee, soaking up some of my stories about Dan and everything I had experienced since he died. She told me that it had been helpful for her to hear from other widows and said, "I appreciate your example and your grace and your honesty."

It is messages like this that make the scariness of sharing your personal thoughts with the internet worth it.  Every time, over the post 19 months, that I've posted a sad, grief-related post on my Facebook, talking about how much I miss Dan or describing the extreme agony in my heart, I've instantly felt that fear and vulnerability that comes with opening yourself up to judgement.  

Our culture is such that people aren't comfortable talking about death.  They're sure as hell not comfortable talking about suicide.  And this is precisely why I've felt the need, since Dan died, to talk about it.  As soon as the police told me how he'd died I thought 'oh no, he's going to be judged.  I'm going to be judged.  People are going to  make assumptions about our relationship or his character...' and then I realised how unfair and WRONG that was.  

I mean, of course I knew that Dan's death was caused by a disease - not a character flaw or because of any unhappiness he felt with his life.  So I was determined to help others understand that too. 

The same goes for grief.  Before Dan died the only widow I knew was my then-90-year-old grandmother (who lost her husband at 49).  I had seen friends mourn parents who had been taking too soon by cancer but I didn't have any understanding of how that actually felt.  Let alone, the loss of a spouse.  So I spoke about my feelings.  I wanted people to grasp what was happening to me.  

Maybe, so they'd be a bit gentle and avoid any unrealistic expectations about this being a 'phase' that I would go through.  Maybe because I wanted them to appreciate their own partners and their own good health.  Most likely, it was a form of therapy for me.  I needed to purge the pain and get it out of my head.  

Writing has helped me cope with, and process, my loss.  But I share it with others because I hope to help someone else the way the Widow's Voice writers coaxed me through each day of my own pain, when I become a widow.  

On the days that I post and there are no comments, it's easy to wonder if I'm missing the mark.  If I'm writing such nonsense that no one was able to relate.  Then, there are days where someone tells me that I've made a difference to them.  And that one message makes it all worth while.  So thank you to those of you who reach back.  It really does keep us going.

My Forever Valentine

The cover of the last Valentine's day card I gave my husband

I've been back home, in Brisbane, Australia, for a couple of days now.  As it seems to go with most vacations, it's so good to go away and then it's so good to get home.  Getting off the plane after the 13-hour flight from LA and walking in to the arms of my wonderful parents, who came to town to collect me from the airport, was a good feeling.  I had a wonderful time, both in New York exploring a new city, and at Camp Widow.  But I felt ready to get back to my bubble.

It was emotional to come home.  I was very tired and jet-lagged, I had missed my family, my friends, my house and was happy to be reunited with them.  I had missed my routine and the little world I've built for myself since Dan died.  But returning home, I missed my widowed friends and the safe little world that exists when I'm around them.  I felt lifted by the people I met at Camp Widow, the wonderful spirit of the weekend, the bravery of the men and women I met.

You'd think that a conference for widowed people would be a pretty miserable event, but it's actually so uplifting and fun. Everyone is full of camaraderie, there is constant laughter and hugs and celebration of love. To meet people who have been through the darkest of times and can still find light in their lives is indescribable. My widows are some of my favourite people in the world.

So I have felt like I'm in a strange place... floating between wanting to run back to widow-land and wanting to re-enter my real life. 

And then, smack bang in the middle of all of that, we have Valentine's day today.  Bleugh.  What a crappy day this is for us.  I have been lucky enough to have avoided most of the commercials and hype because I've been travelling, and THANK GOD it fell on a Saturday this year, so we were spared the parade of flower deliveries throughout the work place.  But still, here it is.  

When I woke this morning, on Valentines day (in Australia, we're 18 hours ahead of Los Angeles, so I write this on Saturday afternoon to be published in the USA by midnight Friday), I immediately started missing Dan.  I pulled out our old cards and read the beautiful messages we had written each other.  We were not yet married, on our last Valentine's day together, so they were all full of hope and excitement about how we couldn't wait to be husband and wife that coming June (he died six weeks after our wedding), and how we were so blessed to have each other.  

Of course the tears fell.  I couldn't lay around in bed and cry for too long though, because I had booked a hair appointment for 8am and had errands to run.  

As I went about my day, I kept thinking about Dan, and this stupid day, and what I was missing out on because he wasn't here.  And I realised something.  Yes I was missing my husband today... but do you know what?  I realised, I wasn't missing his love.  Because it was still all around me.  

It hadn't gone away.  The words he wrote in his cards still held the same meaning today, as they did two years ago.  I was still the most important thing in his life.  The gratefulness that he felt at coming home to me every night was still real.  I was his eternal love story. We are Forever Valentines.

It's hard to explain and didn't even make a lot of sense in my own head, but I actually felt like I could feel a warmth around me, almost like a full body hug that enveloped my whole being.  I was still carrying his love with me today, even though he's been gone 18 months. 

The gifts that he brought to my life are still here and will be with me forever.  The person I am today is because he loved me.  

Maybe this realisation was partly because of the inspiring messages I received at Camp Widow.  Actually, I think this had a LOT to do with it.  But I also feel like maybe I am growing.  Maybe I am moving through my grief, so that in this moment I was able to see past the pain and the agony at being separated from him and see some of the joy that is still here, because of the time we got together. 

It's an incredible feeling when you can see this growth in yourself.  It's a bit scary, and I almost still don't fully believe it is possible.  But it's nice.  It's a relief.  And I know Dan would be proud of me.  Because I'm proud of myself. 

No Tears in Tampa...

Well here I am at Camp Widow in beautiful Tampa. Today I attended round table discussions on 'being widowed by suicide', 'being widowed without the chance to have children' and 'signs and synchronicity'.  I met some wonderful, inspiring people and told my story a couple of times.  And I didn't cry once.

This last point is making me feel VERY uncomfortable.  How come I'm not a teary hot mess right now?  While I participated in these sessions and engaged with others, I was able to talk about my grief almost calmly, as if I had made my peace with it.  As if this is all something that happened to me a lifetime ago.  Or as if I was telling someone else's story.  

Right now I'm trying not to judge the way I'm feeling or force myself to 'be' a certain way, but I can't help but wonder ... where is the pain?  Am I heading towards a bad grief crash?  Surely it's coming.  I mean, it always comes, doesn't it.

I arrived in Tampa on Thursday night, fresh from a wonderful week in New York and firmly in holiday mode.  I'd wandered around the city that I had planned to explore with my husband, seeing the sights that he'd spoken about from his previous trips and wishing he were by my side.  But I had fun.  The ache for him felt almost... compartmentalised. As if my brain had packaged up my grief in to a neat little box and stored it on a shelf in the back of my mind so that it didn't mess up my holiday.  

It's still there, I can touch it but it's almost like I'm opting to let it sit there for now, rather than bringing it down and unpacking it again.  I know I have to at some point.  One thing is for certain, that grief can't be left in that box on the shelf.  It needs to be aired and sorted through regularly so that it doesn't fester and get stale. 

The box may come tumbling down this evening at the welcome reception (I'm writing this quickly in my room before I head out again).  It may burst open during a workshop or presentation tomorrow or the flood gates might come undone on the flight home to Australia, when my brain starts to slow and think about returning to the life I have there without him.  Who knows.  

For now, I am trying to enjoy the moment of peace and the company of the wonderful people here at Camp Widow.  

If you're here and we haven't met yet, please find me and say hello.  I'm the tall one with the accent. 

Travelling My New Path

Travel selfies at LAX

As I write this, I'm sitting in a plane, flying from Los Angeles to New York.  I'm back in the USA for Camp Widow East next weekend and decided to make a holiday off it, fulfilling a life-long dream of visiting the Big Apple. 

This is my second trip to the states and again I find it very emotional to be here without Dan, as it reminds me of all the plans we made to travel together but never got the chance to see through.

New York has not only always been on my bucket list, but it was one of my husband's favourite places.  He'd visited a number of times and had even spent a Christmas here with a mate, many years before we met.  

Before he died, we'd planned a wonderful holiday to experience a New York Christmas together, which we had scheduled for 2013. He was so excited as he spoke about all the places he wanted to show me.  Central Park, the Rockefeller Christmas Tree, all the beautiful boroughs and neighbourhoods.  This was one of the many dreams we didn't get to see through, because of his death.

Making this journey now without him is so very bittersweet.  I miss him so much, I miss the excited glow he would get, I miss the twinkle in his eye, I miss being able to sit here and hold his hand and share such a special moment with him.

I can't help but feel like he's with me though.  For example... I am not what you'd call a sports enthusiast.  I don't hate sport, but I wouldn't exactly seek it out.  However when the friend who I'm travelling with asked if I wanted to join her at the basketball or ice hockey during our visit, I thought it sounded like a fun thing to do.  She ended up organising tickets to both, and then we realised we'd also be in the USA for Superbowl Sunday!  So, that's three 'sporting events' that I will be viewing (the Superbowl we will only be watching from a bar somewhere, but still). Dan, the sports nut, MUST surely have pulled some strings to make that happen. 

I like that I'm able to feel connected with him through places.  I find myself wondering, did he walk down this street?  Maybe he even sat in this taxi.  I know for sure that he loved this country and if the spirits of our dearly departed really do get to stay with us and share in our happiness, he would be loving that I'm here, experiencing a city that is so dear to his heart.  

Even though I'd chose my life with Dan over any alternative, I'm also very aware that I will have opportunities and experiences on this holiday that would not have been possible if he were still here with me. 

I'm grateful that I will get to spend time with my friend (and fellow Widow's Voice writer) Kelley Lynn while I'm here.  I didn't know any 'real new yorkers' before Dan died, but my world has been broadened significantly because I'm now part of the widowed community.  I will then get to travel to Florida and see another dear friend Michele and make more new friends at Camp Widow.  

It is so easy to dwell on what I am missing.  I can't escape the fact that he should be here.  But that loss is softened slightly on the days that I'm able to take a moment and think about what blessings have come in to my life, only because of the path that it has taken.  A path I would never have chosen or wanted, a path I find myself on reluctantly.  But, nevertheless, a path that still presents adventures and experiences that are waiting to be explored.

Wanting to Live Again

Source

When you're a widow, the passing of time often feels like the only constant.  When your world has fallen apart and you've been made acutely aware of just how little control you have over your life; the counting of the days, months and years can give us a point of focus and something to hold on to.

I remember when Dan first died, I held on to the hope that if I could just survive the coming months, the pain would surely have to ease. I learned to accept that it would never go away, but the widowed people I met who were further along the path gave me hope that I'd adapt to live with the grief and life wouldn't always be agonising.

Today marks 18 months since I lost my husband to depression.  The pain, while easier to carry, is still so very deep. On the 24th of every month I find myself wondering at how surreal it is that he's been gone so long, yet this life without him can still feel so new.

I mean, 18 months is not a particularly long period of time.  As far as jail sentences go, it's considered a bit of a slap on the wrist (though I'm the sure the inmate would feel every single day of it). An 18-month old child is really still in infant, so very brand new in the world.  However, in so may ways, 18 months can feel like a lifetime.  I know this because 18 months, give or take, is really only how long I had with Dan.  And in this time he changed my entire world.

We met in November 2011 after he contacted me through an online dating website.  We'd both been single for awhile and, between us, had a LOT of interesting and pretty average online dating experiences.  So we had both nearly given up hope... until our paths crossed.

We spent the next four weeks getting to know each other, before he had to head away on a pre-planned, month-long Christmas holiday.  By the time he got back in early January 2012, we were both pretty sure that this was going to be something special.  Things stated to get more serious and I introduced him to my friends a few weeks later, with absolutely no idea that in 18 months time he would be dead and I'd be a widow at 33.

Those 18 months with Dan were magical.  We were fairly conservative people and not inclined to jump into things or give up our independence easily, however we quickly became inseparable and felt like we'd finally found a love that had been worth waiting for.  A kind, generous, patient and eternal love that taught us more about ourselves and the world that we could ever have imagined.

He bought an engagement ring six months later, in July, proposed in September and we set a date to be married the following June, in 2013. Almost 18-months after we met.   In 18 months I went from being very single to a blissfully happy newlywed.  And then six weeks later, a young widow.

So because of this, I know exactly how much can happen in 18 months.  Which makes this past 18 months of my life so very bleak in comparison.  While I can list the things I've done since Dan died: travelled overseas, enjoyed time with friends and family, met some wonderful new people and been present at special occasions and holidays, I really just feel like I've been treading water.  It pales in comparison to how alive Dan made me feel.

My career has taken a significant step back, I haven't been as present and giving in the lives of the people around me and every day has been tinged with the weight and the sadness of living in a world without him in it.

I guess it's the difference between surviving and living.  My life has been on pause, I've been waiting for  the pain to get more bearable, for me to grow stronger.  Waiting to heal so that I can take myself off pause and take a step forward. And those who know me well can testify that I'm not known for my patience.

It is so frustrating, this feeling of not quite living. I don't want to wait.  I want to be doing all the things that my friends are doing, having babies and making plans and sharing their lives with the person who loves them more than anything else in the world.

I'm now at that point where the restlessness to 'live' is getting stronger than the sense of needing to wait.  It's just so hard to know what to do about it.  How do I live again while such a big part of me is dead?

Disconnected by Pain

Source

Last weekend, both my sister and my best friend were out of town on (separate) family holidays when my grief decided it might be a good time to roll on up and knock me around for a bit. Knowing I was in for a quiet weekend, I had set myself a few tasks around the house and planned to lay low, catch up on laundry and housework, do some cooking for the week and fit in a gym session or two. 

However when I woke up on Saturday morning, with the weekend stretching before me, the feeling of loneliness was heavy and the emptiness filled my bedroom. I am usually quite comfortable spending time alone and quite enjoy my own company, so it’s not unusual for me to have a weekend by myself.  But I think that knowing my two ‘go-to people’ were unavailable if I started feeling lost or down, opened the door to that horrible realisation that my person is gone and I am on my own. 

By midday on Sunday the tears had been falling almost non-stop all weekend, I had achieved none of the chores I’d set myself and had lost a significant number of hours just staring at the wall and waiting for time to pass.   I was in a deep depression and felt disconnected from the rest of the world.  The idea of returning to work Monday morning was actually looking appealing.  Yep, things were that grim!

Somewhere in the depths of my logical brain, I knew the fog that had settled would lift again.  I knew there was light and hope and happiness out there somewhere, it was just out of reach in that moment so I had to buckle up and wait for it to pass.

Luckily, mid-week I started doing better and am feeling ok now but when I caught up with another friend and mentioned that I’d had a bad few days, she asked why I hadn’t called her. It was so hard to explain.  I’ve never been very good at asking for help and the grief complicates this even more, because no one can make it so that Dan didn’t die and bring back my old life.

I’m lucky that my sister and my best friend know me well enough to sense when I’ve gone a bit quiet or usually hear the strain in my voice when I lie that ‘I’m ok’, and just turn up to sit with me and talk it out.  But even with them it takes a considerable amount of effort to show them my pain.

In my head, it’s like I’m so miserable and sad, I just can’t bring myself to subject other people to that.  I don’t even know what I would say or what I need/want. In my grieving brain, I can’t see the purpose in calling and saying, ‘Oh hi, I’m really sad.’ I mean, what am expecting from them?  I feel terrible for putting someone in the position to have to respond to that.  It’s not like I’m asking for help moving a heavy piece of furniture, I’m asking them to help me feel less devastated.  What a massive thing to ask of someone!

In hindsight I know the act of reaching out always leads me to a better place.  Once I connect and start talking I can usually identify whatever particular thought or emotion it is that happens to be taking the floor at that moment and almost always feel a release by just verbalising the pain.  But when you’re in that hole, you just can’t see that.

In a way, if I put myself in the company of others, I’d probably just feel pressure to try not to be sad and upset them, so I’d feel compelled to put on my cheerful mask to reassure everyone that I’m ok, and that’s just even more exhausting. 

Which lead me to think, I wonder if that’s kind of how Dan felt when his depression passed that point of going beyond being able to reach out.  Maybe that’s what stopped him from talking to me that day.  Did he think that there was nothing I could do to help him, so he didn’t want to worry me and inflict that on me?  Maybe he didn’t want to put that pressure on me – or knew he’d feel compelled to put on his ‘I’m ok’ face and just didn’t have the energy to do that anymore. 

I’m not anywhere near as desperate and lost as he must have been feeling, because I’m not suicidal.  So it makes me sad to think just how dark that place must have been for him. It’s a cruel disease, depression.  The way it feeds you lies and blocks you from getting help.  If he had of been suffering from a physical pain, rather than a disease in his brain, he would have had the logic and capacity to communicate how he was feeling and seek help.  But the depression took that from him.

It had been said there are significant similarities between grief and depression, but it’s also incredibly important to know the difference between the two.  I have felt depressed in my grief but I haven’t had depression, although I know many of my widowed friends have, which is very scary for them.

Every time the darkness of that deep grief descends upon me I’m reminded of some of the feelings my darling husband must have been battling with.  It helps me understand how out of control he must have been feeling and again reaffirms that his suicide wasn’t a ‘choice’ made by a rational brain, it was a desperate act by someone who felt deprived of any other solution. While I can remind myself that the fog will lift and my deep pain isn’t permanent, he just wasn’t able to find that hope.